  One bright spring morning Corporal Rand arrived at Fort Good Faith. It was somewhat off his regular route, but he had a purpose in mind. There were three young men there he very much wished to see. One of them was Dick Kent, the second, Sandy MacClaren, a nephew of the factor, and the third, a young Indian, named Toma. On many occasions previously the three boys had given unsparingly of their services. The police needed their help now. Working on the Dewberry case, Corporal Rand had suddenly remembered about the boys and had decided to call upon them for assistance. They could help him in clearing up the mystery. All three were unknown to Frischette. They might be able to secure valuable information he couldn’t obtain himself. So, immediately after his arrival, he summoned the three boys and made known his plans. “I would suggest,” he concluded, “that the three of you, masquerading as young prospectors, drop into Frischette’s place and remain there several days on some pretext or other. You can say that you’re waiting for supplies, coming in by pack-train from Fort Good Faith. Cultivate Frischette’s acquaintance. Make friends with Fontaine, the half-breed boy in his service. See how much information you can pick up about Dewberry and ‘Rat’ MacGregor.” “But do you really believe,” Dick asked, “that Frischette knows any more about the murder than he has already given out to you?” “I’m not sure.” Corporal Rand pursed his lips. “But one thing is slowly dawning upon me.” “What?” asked Sandy breathlessly. “That MacGregor’s wife was right, that MacGregor didn’t take Dewberry’s money, or the small poke he had around his neck.” “But if he didn’t take it, who did?” Dick inquired. “Frischette himself might have taken it.” “Surely MacGregor had something to do with it,” argued Sandy. Corporal Rand rose and walked slowly across the floor to a little table, where he helped himself to a glass of water. He turned and regarded the boys thoughtfully. “Here is a supposition that may throw a little light on what actually occurred. ‘Rat’ MacGregor, as we have reason to believe, was the first person to have designs upon Dewberry. He planned the robbery. He drugged his victim. Evidently murder did not enter into his calculations. When all was still in the room, MacGregor crept over to Dewberry’s bunk to commit the robbery. “In some way his plans went wrong. Perhaps the drug had not proved sufficiently potent. While taking the money and poke, let us say, Dewberry woke up. Perhaps Dewberry made some slight exclamation or sound, which terrified MacGregor and which also might have aroused some other sleeper in that room. In desperation, we will assume, MacGregor murdered Dewberry, but is surprised in the act by this other person who had awakened. Just for the sake of my theory, we will say that that person was Frischette, that in some way he got the ‘drop’ on MacGregor, compelling him to hand over the money and poke and then forcing him to leave the place immediately.” “Yes, that is plausible,” agreed Dick. “But why Frischette? There were other persons in the room beside him. Why do you think that Frischette may be the guilty one?” “Because Frischette is planning to leave the country. He claims that he had made a lot of money up here, and is now giving his business to the boy, Fontaine, for a small consideration. That in itself is suspicious. Frischette’s determination to go ‘outside’ surprised me because I remember that, less than a year ago, he confided to me his intention to build three new road-houses here in the North.” “When is he planning to leave?” asked Sandy. Corporal Rand smiled reminiscently. “He expected to go this week, but he has changed his mind since my last talk with him. As a personal favor to me, he has consented to postpone his journey until this little mystery has been cleared up.” “But do you think that Frischette is aware that you suspect him of the theft?” “No, I believe not. I merely told him that he would be of invaluable assistance to me in solving this case, and that the mounted police would be deeply indebted to him if he would consent to remain here for a few weeks longer.” Dick and Sandy both laughed. “I’ll bet he’s worried stiff,” grinned the latter, “that is, if he’s really the thief. By the way, corporal, how much money did this Dewberry have in his possession at the time of the murder?” “There’s no way of determining the exact amount,” Rand answered. “Probably several hundred dollars in cash.” “I wouldn’t think that that would be sufficient bait to tempt MacGregor.” “There was the poke. Don’t forget that.” “But you said it was a small one. Perhaps there wasn’t more than a few hundred dollars in nuggets and gold dust.” “I’m not sure that it was gold.” “What makes you say that?” “Well, it was a very small poke. That much I know. It was almost too small for a prospector’s pouch. As you have suggested, if it contained nuggets, there would scarcely be a fortune there—hardly enough to tempt MacGregor. MacGregor would never have taken the chance he did for the small amount involved. He was naturally a coward, a sneaking human rat, and only a big stake could have induced him to gather sufficient courage to make the effort. After reasoning it all out, I have come to the conclusion that MacGregor must have known what that poke contained: Something infinitely more valuable than gold.” “More valuable!” exclaimed Dick. “Yes. Why not? Precious stones—or a secret of some sort worth thousands of dollars.” Sandy sat up, clutching the sides of his chair. “I’ll say this is getting interesting. You’re arousing my curiosity, corporal. I love a mystery.” “Well, you have one here,” smiled Rand. “The morning after the murder I came to the conclusion that it would not be a very difficult case. However, it seems that I was wrong. Apparently, ‘Rat’ MacGregor is not the only person involved. Before we sift this thing to the bottom, we may discover that many persons are implicated. It is one of the most mysterious, unusual cases with which I have ever had to deal.” “How do you purpose to work it all out?” “I’m almost wholly at a loss to know. I haven’t a great deal to go on. It occurred to me that you boys might be able to pick up information that I couldn’t get myself. You may be able to find a clew. In the meantime, I’m going over to Crooked Stick River—the place where Dewberry came from just before the murder—and question some of the people there. Perhaps Dewberry had a friend or two in whom he confided. Certain it is that the contents of that poke has been seen by someone. Otherwise, to use a well known expression, MacGregor never would have been ‘tipped off.’” “Don’t you suppose that Dewberry might have told MacGregor about his secret?” asked Dick. “Scarcely likely. MacGregor was hardly the type of person in whom one would confide. He was a notorious character here in the North. He had a very unsavory reputation. At various times he had been implicated in certain questionable undertakings, and once had served a term in jail.” “You think, then, that MacGregor had been following Dewberry?” “Yes, awaiting his opportunity. He’d learned of the secret. But I’m positive that Dewberry gave him no information at all.” Thus far Toma, naturally reticent, had taken no part in the conversation. He sat rigid in his chair, eyes wide with interest, nothing escaping him. Suddenly he drawled forth: “When you want us go over this fellow Frischette’s place?” he asked. “Tomorrow, if you will,” answered the corporal. “Arrange to stay there for three or four days. Then come back here to meet me.” “I know this young fellow, Fontaine, you talk about,” Toma informed them. “One time we pretty good friends. We go to school one time at Mission. If he know anything, me pretty sure him tell Toma.” “Good!” exclaimed Corporal Rand. “I’m glad to hear that, Toma. Your friendship with Fontaine may be the means of solving this mystery. If Frischette is implicated, Fontaine must be aware of it.” The policeman rose to his feet again. “Well, I guess you understand what’s to be done. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll hurry away now. I want to see Inspector Cameron for a few minutes before I go on to the Crooked Stick.” He turned and shook hands with each of the boys in turn. “Well, good luck to you. I hope you’ll like your new role of police detectives. When you return, you’ll probably find me here awaiting you.” On the evening of the following day, the three boys, dressed for the part, arrived at Frischette’s road-house. It had been a warm afternoon and the boys were weary as they rode up to the well known stopping place and slowly dismounted. Sandy paused to wipe the perspiration from his face. “We’re here—” he announced, “mosquitos and all.” He looked curiously about him. “So this is the famous stopping-place. I’ve often heard of it. It’s one of the largest road-houses north of the Peace River. They say that Frischette is an interesting character. He’s lived in the North a good many years.” Sandy’s observations were cut short by the appearance of two young half-breeds, who sauntered over in their direction. Toma gave vent to an exclamation, dropped the reins over his pony’s head and advanced quickly to meet them. “One of them must be Fontaine,” guessed Sandy. “But he knows them both,” observed Dick. Immediately Toma and his two friends approached and introductions took place. “This him fellow,” Toma was explicit, “my friend, Pierre Fontaine. This other fellow, also my friend, Martin Le Sueur. He come long way this morning to be with Pierre. Mebbe after while they be partners an’ buy Frischette’s business.” Both Le Sueur and Fontaine spoke very little English, so the conversation that ensued, a lively one, was carried on in Cree. While it was taking place, the boys put up their ponies and walked back in the direction of the hostelry. No sooner had they entered, than Frischette, with his usual hospitality, came forward to bid them welcome. As he did so, Dick gave him the benefit of a close scrutiny. He was a little man, dark, vivacious—typically French. Yet his lively features showed the unmistakable Indian strain of his mixed origin. He conducted the boys to the dining room, talking as he went. “Very hungry you must be, monsieurs. Sit down for a moment. We have plenty to eat here. I myself will serve you. Baked whitefish from ze water only an hour. Brown bread which I bake with my own hands. Then there ees coffee an’ a sweet pastry, monsieurs.” “I was hungry, but I’m famished now after hearing all that,” Sandy declared. “You are very generous, Mr. Frischette.” “Et ees nothing.” The Frenchman waved his arms deprecatingly. “I like et you come here once in a while during thees lonesome summer to make ze company. I am glad to learn that you are friends of thees ver’ good boy, Fontaine.” Their welcome had been so whole-hearted and spontaneous that Dick did not, even for a moment, believe that Frischette’s manner was assumed. In spite of himself, he was drawn toward the vivacious, hospitable Frenchman. A capital host! It was difficult to see how Corporal Rand could harbor suspicion against such a person. The genial road-house keeper had none of the characteristics nor any of the appearances of a criminal. That was Dick’s first impression of the man. Nor did he stand alone in this respect. Sandy, too, had been impressed favorably. Just before retiring for the night, the young Scotchman whispered in his chum’s ear: “Look here, Dick, if you want my honest opinion, I think we’ve come on a wild goose chase. I believe Corporal Rand is wrong. After seeing and talking with this man Frischette, I’m absolutely certain that he’s innocent. Someone else is the guilty person.” “I can’t help thinking that too,” Dick replied. “If looks and actions are not deceiving, Frischette is innocent. I doubt if he knows any more about the case than he’s already told Rand. Just the same, we’ll remain here and follow the corporal’s instructions.” “Just wasting time,” grumbled Sandy. Suddenly, they were aware of a presence near them. Both looked up quickly and a little guiltily, expecting to see Frischette himself. Instead it was Toma—Toma, a curious expression on his face, the light of excitement in his eyes. “Sandy, Dick,” he announced breathlessly, “you come with me. I find out something important to tell you!” |
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